


Dwarf

by Lethe9



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Chest Hair, Drabble, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff, Minor Cassandra Pentaghast/Varric Tethras, POV Varric Tethras, PoorCassandra, PoorVarric, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Varric Tethras Writes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-09-11 08:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8971381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lethe9/pseuds/Lethe9
Summary: A series of one-shots featuring Cassandra and our favourite unwelcome tagalong.





	1. Turning the Tables

**Author's Note:**

> I've hit a bit of a road block with Greater Pride Hath No Man. (I'm attributing this to my dedication to the official canon, and we all know where it ends: Solavellan Hell.) So for now I'm writing about another of my favourite ships that is not part of the official plotline at all. 
> 
> Yet.

Some days, the quill was light in his hand and the words flowed like wine in midsummer.

Today was not one of those days. Varric Tethras took a slow slip from his heavy leaden tankard and tried again.

_The soft dappled light sharpened her cheekbones, transforming her shapely visage into that of a marble statue come to life..._

Absolute garbage. His talents clearly extended to neither romance nor flowery imagery. Varric could feel his readers cringing already, not to mention the subject herself.

But how else could he manage to write the Seeker? Blunt as a cudgel, piercing as a sharpened blade, and yet somehow soft and sensitive; Cassandra truly was a puzzle. However - and he doubted this not at all - if she ever read that last passage she'd be after his blood.

Varric could not help but chuckle.

"What is it, dwarf?" growled a deeply accented voice from behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder and there was Cassandra herself, glowering as usual in her light training armour. Varric felt the familiar twist in his gut but forced it down. She looked grumpy - to no one's surprise - but the angry set of her brow only added to her warlike beauty.

_Warlike beauty_ … that was good, he thought, making a mental note.

"Seeker," he greeted her shortly. "Have you come for a drink, or to flip another table on me?"

Cassandra's frown deepened. "Why do you insist on speaking to me as though I am a thug?"

"Well, you _were_ the one throwing punches..."

Dealing with the Seeker was always easier, more straightforward, when she was angry. However, Cassandra seemed to be attempting to swallow her irritation.

Shit.

"I had hoped to join you for a drink," she forced out between clenched teeth. The Herald's Rest was lively this evening, as it always was, and warm music and revelry filled the air.

"You want to drink with your least favorite tagalong?" Varric was - not unpleasantly - shocked. "Tiny is over there too, you know." He gestured lazily to the Iron Bull who lounged in his usual spot across the tavern.

"His suggestive comments are becoming tiresome."

"Ah." Renowned spy though he was, Bull was not known for his subtlety.

"If I am bothering you, I can sit elsewhere," Cassandra offered with uncharacteristic consideration.

"That's all right, Seeker," Varric chortled, kicking back a stool for her. "As long as I'm less irritating than Bull, have a seat."

She sat, and though Cabot, the barkeep, immediately placed a half-pint of Skyhold's best in front of her, she seemed uncomfortable. As he continued scribbling, Varric had the sense that she was watching him closely. It was quite distracting.

Finally, he set down his quill with a sigh.

" _What, Seeker_?"

Cassandra looked around frantically for a moment before she spoke in a rush. "I want to apologize, Varric. For before. With the table."

Oh, this was too good to pass up.

Varric suppressed a snicker and looked at her as innocently as a rogue could. "Beg your pardon?" he teased. "I didn't catch that!"

She looked ready to choke. "I am sorry."

"Oh! I'll mark this on my calendar - Cassandra had a feeling!" he chuckled.

Angry pink spots darkened Cassandra's cheeks. "Perhaps not _that_ sorry," she muttered grimly.

Varric laughed out loud and picked up his quill again. "Moving on, Seeker - would you describe your cheekbones as _sculpted_ or _warlike_?"

The words were out of his mouth before he'd thought them through, and Cassandra's eyes narrowed in haughty embarrassment.

"What!?"

"I want my readers to understand how, well, _terrifying_ your face can be so - "

"The tale of the Inquisition has nothing to do with my face!"

Varric tried (unsuccessfully) to ignore the blush that was creeping up her neck as he leaned in slyly. "That's where you're wrong, Seeker. You are the woman who spat on the Grand Clerics and founded the Inquisition. The story has all the makings of an epic! Men everywhere will want you; women will want to be you. And do you know where that magic comes from? _Detail_!"

Cassandra, bright red and flustered, covered her eyes with a hand. "I do not think - "

"No? Well, let's let the professional writer handle this, shall we?" He glanced at his notes, chose a particularly ill-written passage, and read aloud: " _Blood dripped from Seeker Pentaghast's blade as she roared her challenge into the night. Every foe automatically flinched; the thuggish set of her shoulders intimidating the warring Templars into restless submission -"_

The Seeker drained her glass and slammed it on the table. "That - that is - out of the question!" she declared, and with a final disgusted noise, stormed out of the tavern.

_Warlike_ it is. 

Varric watched her leave, heart pounding, though the slamming of the barroom door caused more than one glance in his direction.

_Get a hold of yourself, fool_ , he thought roughly. _Think of Bianca._

Bianca, who'd left him. Bianca, who married someone else.

His heart didn't listen. It rarely did.


	2. Hawke's Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke offers advice that Varric may not be ready to hear.

Maker's balls, but it was good to see Hawke again.

Their party was sheltered in the Crestwood cave where they'd met the mysterious Warden, Stroud. Outside, an unearthly storm howled like a hungry pack of wolves, pelting rain and hail. It was nearly enough to drown the moaning of the many undead wandering around - or so Varric imagined.

Lavellan and the Warden were certainly tense, staring worriedly out into the rain. Dorian had turned in suspiciously early, possibly sulking about Stroud's more sizable mustache. And Cassandra had worn a trail into the sandy ground from her relentless pacing. She turned back and forth, her frenzied movements graceful as they were in combat.

Only Varric felt content. He and Hawke were lounging by the fire as if they were back in The Hanged Man. There was just something about Hawke's lopsided grin and barbed humour that made him feel at home.

"So how's Fenris?" Varric asked, taking a sip from his flask. The whiskey seared his throat, warming him through.

Hawke tugged the small bottle out of his hands and flicked her eyes sideways. "Oh, you know - dark, vengeful. Mind-blowing sex."

Varric barked a laugh, marvelling at his friend's ability to find hilarity in apocalyptic chaos.

Cassandra looked back at the sound and their eyes met for a brief moment.

Hawke gave Varric an easy grin. "What about you?"

"Beg pardon?"

The smile widened and Hawke lowered her voice. "I can't help but notice that you've been somewhat…distracted. From my riveting company, that is."

He determinedly kept his eyes glued to Hawke's face. "Sorry, pal - you've lost me."

She considered him for a moment in that way only Hawke could. Her piercing, kohl-lined eyes seemed to peer into his soul. Then, she let out a sigh.

"You are so full of shit."

Varric couldn't help but laugh. "Andraste's ass, Hawke - "

"Shut up." She pushed the flask back into his hands. "Seriously, Varric. You deserve a little… not _normalcy_ , but sanity. You know, happiness. Bianca's done and it's time to move on."

The lack of sarcasm threw him for a moment.

"Why Hawke," he replied slyly, "I think Broody's made you soft."

She promptly socked him on the arm.

"Ouch."

Hawke smiled and pushed her floppy dark bangs away from her face. She scooted closer and leaned her head on his shoulder. "Maker, Varric. I'm so glad to see you," she whispered.

Varric was stunned, yet again, by how alike they were.

*             *             *

Lavellan rubbed her shoulders gingerly It had been another rough day of cutting through undead and evicting bandits from Caer Bronach. And since Stroud and Hawke had departed for the Western Approach, the party had become darker, more urgent.

Even their camp this evening was quiet. Varric sat behind a tree stump as a makeshift writing desk. Dorian perched, looking bored, on a mossy log, and Cassandra read a book, her back to the fire. "You and the Champion certainly seemed cozy the other night, Varric," said Dorian slyly into the silence.

Lavellan turned her head towards the conversation, and noticed that Cassandra had frozen.

"Is that so, Sparkler?" replied Varric smoothly. He used his airy, evasive, I'm-writing-so-leave-me-alone voice.

"It _is_ so," Dorian persisted. "And I was under the impression that she was involved with - dear me, what was his name? - the slave elf."

"Don't let Broody hear you call him that."

"Broody?" Dorian chuckled, momentarily derailed. "You do like your nicknames, don't you? But I digress. The cuddling, the whispering; how very _intimate_."

With an irritated sigh, Varric set down his pen. "Listen, Sparkler. Hawke and I have been friends for years. Don't read anything into it."

Dorian, smelling blood, leaned in with a smile. "Friends? For that long? Seemed like a very _involved_ friendship to me. One might almost suspect that it's rather more."

"If we're more than friends, we're family," Varric argued. "She's the sister I never had." Lavellan was alarmed. Varric so rarely got riled or defensive, but it was hard to mistake his tone.

"Drop it, Dorian," Lavellen cut in quietly.

The mage shot her a furious look, but relented when he recognized her stern face.

"If you say so," sighed Dorian, sitting back. But as he fingered his moustache, unsatisfied, he kept his eyes on the dwarf.

Varric returned to his work, looking unexpectedly angry.

And so, Lavellan noted with surprise, did Cassandra.


	3. No Underpants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting is always the worst.

_What the hell could possibly be taking so long?_

Varric fidgeted impatiently with his shirtsleeves as he leaned forwards on the wooden table. Iron Bull, Blackwall, Solas, Cole and Sera sat with him in Skyhold's main hall, awaiting the departure for Halamshiral. Iron Bull and Sera seemed nonplussed, Blackwall and Solas were aloof as ever, and Cole was... well, Cole. Varric alone seemed to be feeling the pressure.

The evening was pivotal for Corepheus' insane demon army scheme, and the Inner Circle was gathered to thwart him. Of course, they were still missing most of the female population (and Dorian), because apparently Empress Celine's events required a little preparation.

Varric was not entirely unfamiliar with primping - hell, he'd been forced to pretty up for many suitors pushed on him by Merchant's Guild families. But the stakes were a little higher at the moment - the end of the world versus pissing off his brother - and the waiting was making him twitch.

"That's it," Blackwell declared. "Something must be wrong. Someone's been stabbed, or kidnapped. Maybe murdered. I'm going to check."

Sera tittered but Iron Bull cut in with his deep, slow voice.

"Relax, Warden. This is just part of the process for the ladies. It builds anticipation," he smirked,"like a mating ritual."

Blackwall snorted. "Longest mating ritual I've ever heard of."

Varric couldn't resist. "And that, Hero, is why you can't keep a woman."

The group gaffawed, and even Solas gave a watery smile.

Finally the door to the Inquisitor's chamber opened. Josephine, Leliana and Cullen, dressed in red Inquisition finery, filed through first. Next came Vivienne, dangerously elegant in an ice-blue gown, and Dorian who had preened his moustache to perfection. Even Lavellan had put aside her standard rogue's garb for an exotic forest-green toga and shining silver half mask. She looked fairly awe-inspiring.

"Couldn't pick something less elfy, could ya?" Sera piped up, but Solas had stood to approach her.

"You are a vision, Vhenan," the apostate said smoothly, and placed a gentlemanly kiss on her outstretched hand. Varric considered himself a bit of a cynic, but even he had to admit that the flush on Lavellan's cheeks was adorable.

"Well, that's everyone," Iron Bull announced.

"Hang on," Varric interjected. "Where's the Seeker?"

Vivienne returned swiftly to the chamber door. "Come out, my dear. Don't be shy," she coaxed.

"No. This outfit is absurd," came an irritated Nevarran voice from within.

Oh, this was pure gold. What kind of getup had they forced the Seeker into? Varric couldn't decide whether a manly dragon-slayer outfit or a frilly, girly pink costume would be more hilarious.

"Nonsense," Dorian declared. "Just stand next to me and no one will notice you, anyhow."

"Come on, Cass. We have a long way to travel," Lavellan pleaded.

With an exasperated and remarkably audible sigh, Cassandra stepped into the room.

Varric's jaw hit the floor.

"I look ridiculous," she muttered grumpily, but nothing could be further from the truth.

The Seeker was radiant. Her top half had been dressed in an elegant, conservative fashion with a high-necked gown of midnight blue. But her lower half - _sweet_ _Andraste_. Two wide, hip-high slits exposed her long, shapely legs, sheathed only by enticing dark netting and black ankle boots. Even the taut musculature of her upper thighs were visible. If not been for the deeply uncomfortable look on her face, she could have been a warrior goddess.

The part of Varric's brain that was still functioning noted that she could not possibly be wearing undergarments.

"Catching flies, dwarf?" said Iron Bull quietly.

Varric realized he'd been tricked.  
The Qunari smirked, reminding him of the reason he was not the Inquisition spymaster.

He held up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. "You've got Brawn and Brains cornered, Tiny. It's a shame you've got no chance with Beauty."

The Iron Bill gave one of his roaring shouts of laughter, and flicked his eyes in Cassandra's direction. "Then it's a damn good thing we've got help with that one."

 


	4. Bianca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold receives a surprising visitor and Cassandra is concerned.

For the most part, Varric preferred long evenings to early mornings, but this was late even for him. Skyhold was deserted, save the pacing of the guards. The embers in the fireplace burned a deep, slow orange, as if they too were nearing sleep. The table was covered with discarded papers and the stubs of used candles.

Varric's eyes flew over the many contracts, entreaties, and threats scattered on parchment before him. This business of money-making had become somewhat of a chore since he joined the Inquisition. It seemed as though he had been writing, reading and scheming for days, but the letters kept landing on his desk. He wondered idly how many he could simply burn and pretend had never existed in the first place.

It did not help that this mind kept drifting back to a certain muscular pair of black-laced legs in a shimmering gown...

The dwarf jumped at a sudden echoing noise; a loose pebble, or perhaps the drop of water on stone? He felt his spine prickle and gave himself a little shake. _Time for sleep, Tethras._

A moment later, another sound rang out, rebounding in all directions. This time he was sure: something alive had made that noise. The hairs on his arms stood on end. Varric rose stealthily to his feet, squinting into the darkness of the hall. He slowly reached into his jacket for the dagger he stashed in the hidden breast pocket.

_Something is in Skyhold that shouldn't be._

His fingers closed around the wooden hilt, and he had almost pulled it free when he sensed movement behind him. Varric made to turn, but froze as an unmistakable, ice-sharp tip pressed against the back of his neck.

"I'm sure whichever payment you're after is already on its way," he called hoarsely in a failed attempt at nonchalance. "So which are you: Guild or Coterie?"

The answering chuckle was dark, sultry and without a doubt - _female_.

Varric's stomach dropped to his knees.

"Both. And neither," came the reply. The knife-point was removed and Varric slowly turned.

Bianca Davri, grinning saucily from ear to ear, shook off her cloak in the Skyhold hall.

***

Inquisitor Lavellan was bored out of her senses. The Orleasian noble before her - Comte de Lion? Duc Jean-Pierre? - had been waxing poetic about the beauties of Antivan carpets for the better part of fifteen minutes. She had been biting her tongue for the last ten.

From across the hall, Josephine shot her a look that was both stern and sympathetic. _For the Inquisition._

"- and textures such as you would not believe, Inquisitor! For someone of such simple and rustic origins as yourself, to touch the fabric would be the purest of ecstasies. As if you had ascended to the Maker's side! Count your blessings if you have the privilege - however unlikely - of even basking in its presence!"

Lavellan nearly danced with relief when Cassandra approached and touched her on the arm.

"A word, Inquisitor? It is important."

The noble had hardly noticed and was still dithering on.

"Serah," Lavellan cut in, and noticed Josephine wince as she got the title wrong. "My apologies, but we'll have to continue this another time. The duties of the Inquisition call."

"As you say, Inquisitor," the man sniffed, affronted. He gave a little bow and swept off, presumably to gossip about her poor manners.

"Creators, thank you," Lavellan breathed to Cassandra as she turned away. "That man made tapestry-weaving sound more odious than one of Solas' lectures."

The Seeker grunted but did not smile, and Lavellan's intuition flickered.

"Cassandra? Is something the matter?"

"Who is that Dwarven woman over there?" Cassandra asked, lips barely moving.

"Where?" Lavellan exclaimed, and swivelled her head around.

Cassandra sharply grabbed her wrist and pulled her back. "We can't both stare at once! Now - over by the mantelpiece... with Varric."

Oh. Interesting.

Lavellan scanned the hall. There she was: a taut, curvaceous little thing with her hood pulled over her head. Even from across the hall, Lavellan could make out her wide, dimpled smirk. Varric, on the other hand, looked decidedly uncomfortable, glancing around as the two exchanged whispers.

"I've never seen her before, Cass," said Lavellan, making an effort to lighten her tone.

"Nor have I," the Seeker replied, and leaned in conspiratorially. "Inquisitor, if I may ask: find out who she is! She could be a - an enemy spy!"

Lavellan raised her eyebrows. Cassandra did not seem the jealous type, but there was no mistaking the way her eyes narrowed across the hall.

"Please," Cassandra added in a whisper.

With a sigh, Lavellan nodded. "One of these days, I’ll buy you a drink and make you talk about all this," she threatened jovially.

Cassandra grunted and turned away as Lavellan crossed the hall.

***

"Well, I don’t think she's a spy," announced Lavellan, sauntering over to Cassandra's side.

"What a relief," replied the Seeker sarcastically.

Lavellan chuckled. "She has information about Corypheus. The red lyrium source. It appears that she's quite the little researcher."

The other woman fixed Lavellan with a hard stare. The elf thought drily that she understood why the troops feared her.

"That's not what I want to know," said the Nevarran quietly.

"Well, shit," sighed Lavellan, quoting Varric. "This part, you may not like..."

"Just tell me! Who is she?"

The Inquisitor felt the weight of the name like lead on her tongue. "That woman is Bianca."


End file.
